The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (28 page)

Mrs. Wheatley was never good in dire straits. He had learned that the less she knew, the better. The woman had no filter. She would give away the coordinates of an entire regiment and think she had done something great.

His main consolation was that Elizabet was in possession of the travel stones and using them was simple. The path she needed to take was the brightest and easy to identify.

The location of the inquisition had changed. The small village of Kent was being honored with a visit by a traveling bishop, the Archbishop of Canterbury, no less. Jareth knew him as Walter Reynolds, the son of a baker from Windsor. He’d learned the bishop was behind the house arrest of John Wycliffe, not that it was a bad thing. The privacy afforded the scholar the opportunity to translate in gross amounts. Time was all he had and he used it wisely. The bishop would never understand that. Church officials believed that if Wycliffe was out of the public, he would be rendered unfruitful. There had never been such a vast misunderstanding of a scholar bent on exposing truth.

“Sir Jareth,” the archbishop addressed him as Jareth was led through the doors of the solar in the small church. The church was in the center of the village, surrounded by tall gates. “What an honor to have your presence.” He spoke in cultured French.

“The honor is yours,” Jareth answered in Latin simply to aggravate the man. He refused to bow or kiss his outstretched hand. Instead, he stepped back and turned his gaze to the priest cowering in the darkened corner. It was Ephraim.

Ephraim had been allowed to read some of the transcribed documents and had his doubts regarding the church’s beliefs. Jareth would not regret enlightening the priest, though it had been a risk. He would take the gamble again if it meant spreading the truth and freeing men from the bondage of the church.

The bishop snatched his hand away and sneered. “You forget yourself, Jareth.” He shook his head and clasped his hands together, and took a step back. “But come, tell me of this treason I hear. Explain why you would aid John Wycliffe when you know he is not recommended by the Church. This cannot be true. The prince will be most upset if this rumor is not proven false. Give me your testimony that I may set you free.”
Jareth opened his mouth, but was cut off by the door flying open.

“Make way for the Prince of England!” At the loud proclamation, he turned in annoyance that his demise was being put aside. Indeed, the prince was present and coming down the aisle trailed by a dozen of his men, all of whom were dressed for battle. “Speak of the devil and he appears,” Jareth muttered. Everyone but him and the archbishop fell to their knees.

Prince Edward stalked into the solar with his helmet beneath his arm, his drawn sword swinging at his side. His eyes traveled the length of the room, appearing to take in all who were present. He looked at Jareth and inclined his head in greeting before turning his attention to the bishop.

“Your majesty,” the archbishop said.

“Godfather,” Prince Edward responded smoothly. He turned to face Jareth. “What is the meaning of this?” He waved between the two of them, and then held out his hand, open palm suspended in air. “The king had me summoned as one would a child.” A young servant placed a scroll into the prince’s awaiting hand.

“I would think it is obvious,” Jareth said in Latin. He grinned when Edward cut him a look of murder.

“I am inclined to believe you deserve this,” Edward drawled in perfect French. “But it seems that by royal proclamation . . .” He untied the document and allowed the red cord to fall to the floor, “ . . . the man standing trial is innocent.”

“Nay!” the bishop blurted. Edward leveled him a stare over the scroll. His expression indicated he not accustomed to being interrupted. “Pardon me, your majesty, but it is said he is aiding a scholar who has been placed on house arrest by the Church.”

“I know this,” Edward said while frowning down at the scroll he held. “My father knows this.” He looked around. “I dare say everyone present knows this.” He jiggled the scroll. “May I continue? Royal proclamation and all—no small matter here, and I am very busy.”

“Go right ahead,” Jareth said in plain English.

“Must you do that?” Edward asked in a weary tone. His eyes cut to Jareth. “It is very disturbing. Speak the king’s language or hold your tongue.”

Jareth smiled and faced the bishop. “Shall he continue?” he asked in Latin. The bishop frowned and waved his hand. “Do go on,” Jareth said to Edward in French.

Edward cleared his throat, his expression thunderous. “As I was saying, the king knows Jareth is . . . er . . .” He looked at the bishop, but he merely shrugged, so he turned to Jareth, who let his lips lift in a smirk. “Well, then, I shall just read this.” He held the scroll before him and read the fine print. “By proclamation, King Edward II, His Royal Highness, does hereby pardon, for life, the Duke of Dover from any Church skirmishes—”“Skirmishes,” the bishop echoed.

Still holding the scroll, Edward cut his hand through the air. “Do you dare interrupt a royal decree?” He scrutinized the document, then drew it back a fraction to focus to his eyesight and reread the word. Vaguely he nodded. “Skirmishes.”

The bishop opened his mouth, but Edward waved the scroll in the air. “You may well be my godfather, but I dare say that my brother’s life is more important to me than your favor. The Duke of Lancaster is in route as well. We both speak on behalf of the Duke of Dover. I would highly advise you to proceed with caution.”

“But this is possible treason,” the bishop said, confusion on his face. His voice ricocheted off the high ceiling. “He can never be recognized by the Church. He is a bastard.”

“He is a son of England, not of your Church,” Edward said. He lowered the scroll and turned to Jareth. “Understand my dilemma, brother, and spare me a word of the wise. You have always had a silver tongue, although it knows not what language is best.”

Jareth made himself step forward. His feet were heavy with the adrenaline coursing through him.
A son. A prince. His brother.
He had waited his whole life for acceptance, but it happened at time when it no longer mattered. What mattered was that Elizabet was safe and she would be honored. This would secure his future as nothing else could. Of course, the proclamation had not deemed him legitimate, but to be recognized as protected by the king himself was practically a confession. And Edward was here—now—calling him brother before witnesses. Twice. He had gathered his courage and come here expecting nothing short of an inquisition, and instead the prince rode in and offered him redemption? It was more than he could understand.

Jareth bowed. “I only want to go in peace and live my life in service to the crown of England,” he stated in eloquent Norman French. He straightened, and caught the pleased expression on his brother’s face. He owed it to Edward to speak in his father’s tongue—the language of the king, who was indeed his father. The prince was handing him his freedom. “And to be provided access to the scholar, John Wycliffe.”

“Treason!” the bishop repeated. He stepped boldly forward as well, waving his ringed finger. “This will not do. Wycliffe has begun an uprising. I will not have it!”

“You shall stand down,” Edward roared. Jareth fought an urge not to cower along with everyone else as his brother’s commanding baritone boomed into the open space. As a young squire, he had often been on the receiving end of that bellow that could scare a grown man to tears. It was ironic that the sound of it today was joyful music; it made him want to smile.

“Edward,” the bishop entreated, and then took a step away. “What has become of you? I cannot recommend you if you proceed thusly.”

“The man who stands before you is a prince of England, not a vessel of your Church,” Edward retorted. He lowered the scroll. “I have orders to see that Jareth is unharmed and that he is returned to his position of honor at the seat of Dover Castle. I know no other way to keep the peace. It is either please you or my father.” He tilted his head. “As my father has the authority over my body and soul, I shall choose him.” His eyes rolled heavenward and he muttered under his breath, “May God have mercy on me.”

“I see,” the bishop said. He eyed Jareth. “Will you indeed continue—”

“Aye,” Jareth said, stepping forward. “I shall. And I am prepared to accept whatever consequences the Church sees fit to bestow on me.” He inclined his head. “May God have mercy on me, as well. I can do no other but be faithful to God and the land of my father.”

“The Church may not touch you,” Edward said, his voice deceptively soft. He began rolling the scroll. “It is written as law.” He pointed the scroll toward the bishop, offering it. “If the Church dares to touch a hair on your head, I shall know of it and act according to the law of the land.”

The bishop cast a glance between the prince and Jareth. He stepped further away, making it clear he would accept neither the scroll nor the law.

His stubbornness rankled Jareth. “I cannot stand before God with a clear conscience if I ignore what I have read in scripture,” Jareth said. “To do so would sentence me to a thousand fiery deaths, and I would rather have one death of honor if the Church is so inclined.”

“They will not,” Edward said, his gaze on the bishop.

The bishop stared at his prince who was his godchild. A minute passed before he looked away, and blinked oddly at the people crowding the room. He seemed to realize they were surrounded by witnesses; anything he happened to say would be remembered for ages.

“I shall send well wishes to Mother in your name,” Edward said, and bowed to the bishop. He arched a brow and looked toward the exit. The hint was unmistakable.

“Quite,” the bishop said, and took his leave. When a prince prompted—you did as you were told; archbishop or not.

Jareth approached his brother as the room cleared. “How?”

Edward was busy handing off the scroll to a squire. “You vex me, brother. Did you not see how I challenged my godfather publically and called you my own before all present?”

Jareth nodded, and because Edward deserved it, he gave voice as well, in eloquent Norman French. “I am grateful.”

Edward shook his head and widened his stance. “It is not me who deserves your loyal thanks. You had another person speak in your favor. Your lady wife visited the king two days prior. She implored him that it was to his advantage to extend the crown’s protection.”

“Elizabet?”

Edward gave a single nod. “Aye. She is the reason I was sent. The king trusted no one else. It was rumored you would be beheaded without a trial.”

“My wife said this?”

“She did.” Edward reached into his cloak and took out a letter. “This is for you. This missive will ensure that wherever you go, you do so under the protection of the King of England.”

Jareth lowered his brow, but he reached out to take it. He noticed the letter had the king’s personal mark. “I do not know how she was able to get word so quickly.”

“And just in time, too,” Edward said. He clasped his hands and made a motion over his stomach as if it were rounder. “She is great with child.” He made a fist and knocked Jareth’s shoulder. “Provided the king with proof of marriage and made a mess of your betrothal to Catherine of Torquay. I should be furious with you for not being honest with me concerning your choice of bride. You went and found an Irish girl. Noble. Not well done, though, as it was I who promised your betrothal.”

Jareth only heard ‘great with child’ and knew what had happened. It had been the right decision to have Gabriel and Minh limit interventions. Things were becoming a jumbled mess. No one was sticking to priorities, and the privilege was being abused. People were leaping time and mucking things up.

But Elizabet had saved his life.

The bishop had planned for a private execution—that had to be it. The only way she could have known was because she had seen the future and it had already happened. He had been killed and she mourned him. So she reversed time and set it right the only way she knew. As benign as things had played out, he wondered what had been said to provoke such a drastic outcome.

“The king has pardoned you for the murder of Sir James as well.” He thumbed over his shoulder to the squire who held the scroll. “It will be read publically so no one will seek vengeance. You have the support of crown and country. What a mess you made.” He shook his head. “I shall miss him. Best captain on the sea there ever was.”

“I have the crown’s protection,” Jareth said out loud as if he were testing the truth to see how it sounded.

“Aye,” Edward said. He turned and motioned for Jareth to follow. “But you will never take the throne. If you try, I will kill you myself.”

“Of course,” Jareth responded in plain English, but when Edward looked back at him with a scowl, he switched easily back to French. “I am honored to be acknowledged by the king.”

“Perhaps you can request a new coat of arms,” Edward suggested. They had come to the outer courtyard where the horses were tied. He motioned to where his own flag flew. “One without a small dog and wheel.”

Jareth smirked, but said nothing. His brother wore a mocking grin that he had witnessed before, but his flag was of no concern to him; he would keep it. They could mock him all they wanted but his flag suited him. “I am free to go, then?”

The corners of Edward’s lips turned downward. “Aye. You are free to return to Dover. I, on the other hand, must intercept John. The Duke of Lancaster will be quite angry if he travels all this way and does not get to thrash a man of the Church.” He offered Jareth a grim countenance as he used their brother’s title with an edge to his voice. “You know how he is when it comes to being harsh with Church issues.”

Edward had no idea—not really. The Duke of Lancaster was a larger problem that the Church would deal with eventually. He would let history tell that story. Instead, he found where his horse was tied. He had time to make it home if he hurried.

He rode fast and hard, but when he came to the halfway point; the path was blocked by a band of riders. He did not recognize them, but they flew his flag. Their colors were bolder, brighter—and wrong.